Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Nineteen
"When did you get a motorcycle?" Alana turned and looked back at the conspicuous Harley after Will answered the door. "Is this a rebel yell?"
Will chuckled, a mix of embarrassment with something else, a bit of rebel yell. "It isn't mine. I'm…looking after it."
"Taking in stray motorcycles too now?"
"Actually, it belongs to my latest stray." He shrugged and purposely put on the face. Then he laughed at himself. It was crazy and it was working for him.
"Should I be concerned?"
"If it makes you happy." Will invited her in. "I don't believe for a minute that you drove all the way out here to…car pool to Baltimore for the meeting at the Attorney's office. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
Alana smiled sadly, measuring the new distance between them; whatever might have been was just that – a might-have-been. "How about some coffee before we go? We're early anyway."
She trailed him to the kitchen, sat at the table, greeted whichever dogs were inside, careful to pay equal attention to each one in turn. "You look good," she said, watching him. "Are you keeping busy?"
"I've had…company. It's been nice."
"Your stray?"
He nodded, half turned.
"And the pack of vagabonds here didn't mind?"
"Oddly, no," Will replied. "He broke into my house in the middle of the night and all they did was cuddle up with him for affection – wanton beasts." He switched the coffee pot on and turned to face her fully. "I discovered something."
"What?" She sat up, interested.
"They're terrible watchdogs."
"Oh," she laughed. It sounded forced.
Will frowned. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, no. I was worried about you."
"I'm fine."
"This man... A friend? Will, I didn't know you had any friends. You've never mentioned any."
"I did…have friends. I kissed one – that was a mistake – and the other turned out to be a notorious serial killer. It's tough to…keep up a trusting relationship with someone like that. I decided I needed some new friends."
"Was it a mistake?"
"No. No, not…a mistake, but…" Will looked around her face then the ceiling, looked for words. "It was…nice."
"Nice."
"That's better than 'a mistake', isn't it?"
"No, well yes, I suppose – barely. Who is he?" She was worrying her hands. "Not that it's any of my business."
"No, it's not." He considered not telling her, holding a part of his life secret. How long then before it was part of a report? "It's the US Marshal who shot the…well, shot the man that everyone thinks is the Chess Master."
"And he's not just a friend, is he?" she said, reading him.
He noted that she stepped around the not-too-subtle jab about the case, about his stubborn belief that they hadn't caught the killer yet, she went instead right at his sexual preferences, very Freud, not so subtle. Not that he cared. He was tired of the games. "No, he's not."
She sat back, crossed her arms, looked out the window.
"Nice…body language. You should go into advertising." Will stepped back to the counter to pour the coffee, a reason to turn away again.
Alana sat gaping at him, at the implication, then stood and walked over beside him, put a hand on his arm. "Will, I'm only being protective, not judgmental. It's not that I disapprove, I just don't know him."
"I do."
"Do you? How well?"
"How well does anyone know anyone? Alana, I can't just…stop…trusting people. And…you'll just have to trust me."
"I read the report. He was a suspect, Will, and for good reason considering his background."
"Never for me."
"And you're always right?"
"More often than not. Though when I'm wrong, I admit, I'm spectacularly wrong. I was wrong about Kentucky being the Chess Master's golden ticket."
"You were wrong about Hannibal."
"At first. And we were all...wrong about Hannibal. I'll take a share of the blame, but...an equal share."
"And what if you're wrong about Tim Gutterson?"
Hearing Tim's name drove something hard through him – there had been no contact since he left, nothing. "You don't like that I have somebody. I'm easier to control when I'm unsupported, a little more like a…a patient."
"Will, I…" She took a step back and regrouped. "I'm sorry. Relationships are mostly habit and I've developed some habits with you that clearly have to change. I never wanted you as a patient. I did everything I could to avoid it."
"But in the end... Alana, I understand, don't worry. I'm not...angry with you. But you have to... Circumstances forced it."
He poured the coffee finally, keeping his head down.
Alana made a contrite face, more little girl than accomplished psychiatrist. "Can you tell me about him?"
"You've read the report," he said, peevish, then walked around her to open the fridge, leaning in to get the milk for her coffee.
She capitulated. "Fine. Can you tell me something about him that isn't in the report? Please? As a friend?"
"You sound like a grade-schooler." He straightened up, glanced at her, read the apology in her expression, tossed a crumb. "He has a wicked sense of humor. He can…" Will stopped, smiled quickly. "He can even get me laughing about Hannibal Lecter. In fact, I'm making up my own jokes now."
"Some things aren't funny, Will."
He raised a finger to make a point. "'Those who do not laugh do not learn at all.' I'm thinking of becoming a Taoist."
She played along. "So you feel you're on the right path with this Marshal?"
"When you've been off it as long as I have, believe me, you know when you find it again. It's…easy – easy to be in a room with him." He looked at her again, quickly, to see if she understood what he was saying.
She was nodding, resignation. "You do sound like a Taoist."
"I'm not giving up drinking though." He was changing the topic, speaking lightly. "Do Taoists drink?"
She shrugged, then ran her hand down his arm. "You're happy?"
"Yes, I'm happy."
"Then I'm happy for you."
"Thank you."
The Harley sat unused in the shed. The attorney heading up the prosecution had Will in regularly leading up to the trial, coaching, rehashing the statements and the timelines, checking and cross-checking dates and testimonies. Will quickly stopped believing the story, he'd heard it so many times now, repeated endlessly, that it was taking on the quality of fiction. It certainly was a fantastical story, unbelievable, and yet he'd been there, seen it all with his own eyes.
Two days before the trial was to begin he took a class to cover for Alana who was covering for him. He found it difficult to keep to the script she'd prepared for him. The class was discussing a recent case – the Chess Master – and he couldn't help but pose questions to try and steer the students to doubt the findings, the conclusion. He was turned to the side of the lecture hall responding to a pointed inquiry from a particularly attentive junior agent, both intent on a discrepancy in the evidence, when he caught movement at the doorway. He looked over, expecting disapproval, Jack listening or Alana returned, saw instead a familiar smirk.
It made him angry. He'd not heard a word from him. He'd hoped for… And therein lies the problem, he chastised his emotions, you hoped.
"Ladies and gentleman, the Deputy US Marshal who shot and killed Frederick Hayes is gracing us with his presence this morning." Will waved a hand in Tim's direction and the smirk stilled into something cold and hard. "Deputy Gutterson, why don't you come in and say hello?"
Tim turned and walked out.
Will regretted his spite immediately. "He's a bit…shy," he said, and the class tittered.
Will took a deep breath and finished the lecture. "The scenes set by the Chess Master," he concluded, purposely not naming names, "are elaborate." He put emphasis on 'are', the present tense. "A careful, complex and well-planned series of victim selections and role-playing. What is he saying? What is his design? Judge for yourself if you think the crimes described in the reports fit the profile of the man we shot in the cave in Kentucky." He closed the folder on the lectern. "We caught a killer – there's no doubt about that, but… Write your own profile of the Chess Master and you decide if we caught the right killer, the only killer. Let's hear what you think."
He left a crime scene photo of the first victims on the screen and walked quickly from the hall.
"I know. You don't do this."
"That's right. I don't do this. It was a vacation."
Will sighed. "It sure was."
Tim had been waiting around the corner in a partially concealed alcove, had pulled Will over when he walked past. He hadn't said a word, just glared until Will repented. There were no promises out there.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was childish. What are you doing here?"
Tim wet his lips, his expression softening slightly. "Covering your ass." He twisted his mouth to one side. "I'm here to discuss possible threats with the lead investigator – you. Jack Crawford requested me." He bent his head. "I would've volunteered anyway. How's my bike?"
"Fine. Lonely."
"What? You didn't get a chance…?"
"I've been busy, preparing for the trial, going over testimony. I'm…getting tired of my own voice."
"Holy shit. How's that possible? I've spent time with you. You don't talk much."
Will smiled. "It's good to see you, Tim."
"I can't do this. I told you."
Will caught Tim's eyes and held them. "You deserve this. I…deserve this."
"I can't be something I'm not."
"I disagree. You do an excellent job of it."
Tim was lying on his stomach in a motel room on the outskirts of Baltimore. Will was digging his chin into a knot on his shoulder.
"Ow, fuck. I needed this." Tim buried his head into a pillow, his voice now muffled. "I've been wearing too many fucking clothes in the Louisiana heat for two days running drills for this stupid trial. I just want it over. I'm missing my desk. Never thought I'd say that."
Will laid his cheek on Tim's skin. "It'll be a long trial."
"They'll probably gear up another team and replace us at some point."
"How about weekends?"
"I can get away."
"Come get your motorcycle or I'll start charging you rent."
"Your dogs pissing on it?"
"I let them piss all over it."
Will's head bounced with Tim's chuckling.
"I gotta go," Tim said, checking the time. "4pm meeting with the team. Did you give me a complete list?"
"There are photos, too."
"Don't forget to wave."
"Wave?"
"I'll be looking down my rifle at your ass. Building across the street and east one."
"Roof?"
"Yep. Think of me if it's raining or if it gets up to the promised ninety-fucking-degrees. And I'm wearing black." He dressed as he complained, said, "See ya," and left.
It's ninety-fucking-degrees up here, the heat attacking in waves off the pavement on the street, off the dark roof where I'm set up and watching. I wipe a gloved-hand along my forehead, collecting sweat, start the cycle again with another long drink of water.
Passing the scope over the crowd in front of the courthouse I identify the different groups – media, easy to spot with cameras and microphones and their press IDs hanging around their necks, entitled, aggressive; courthouse workers mingling in the shade, smoking or talking, holding waxed-cardboard coffee cups with logos you can read at this magnification; the relatives and friends of the victims, a support group formed years ago and slowly, wretchedly growing in number, arms offering solace, tears; the local police and US Marshals on the outside of the crowd, eyes alert, occasionally drifting in for a better look, some bolted to a position at attention at the doors, and beyond that the Special Operations Group team, out-of-sight, watchful, the hunters.
My earpiece informs me that the star of the show has arrived already through the back entrance, directly from the Baltimore State Institute for the Criminally Insane, Hannibal Lecter. The lesser stars start arriving at the front, the attorneys, the witnesses, the FBI profiler.
A man wearing a jacket in the heat walks quickly down the sidewalk opposite the crowd. He's spotted, an anomaly, his location radioed to the team. He's in white, moving now across the road, diagonally like a white bishop in play. And I have the best shot. I call it mine, flick off the safety on my rifle, round already chambered. I want to do it now, I tell the microphone, now before the target gets into the mix of humanity, mostly innocent. I wait for the call, close off any feeling but impatience. I wait, wait, suddenly in waiting I think, I'm going to kill that man that I don't know with a bullet. Then I twitch, once, residual memories of a time before I ever had to… This is not my design; this was never my design. This is my duty. This is what I am here for, what I trained for, and I can't not …
Will opened his eyes to the dark room, moonlight filtering white through the window. Shutting down the mental process, halting his imagination abruptly at the moment with Tim's finger on the trigger, he rolled out of bed and padded down to the kitchen for a glass of water, opted for whiskey but purposely avoided the bourbon he'd bought just for his stray.
He had put himself on the roof with Tim, gone through the scenario three times now, but he couldn't get past to the point where Tim pulls the trigger. He didn't want to go there. He opened the door and stepped out to the porch to the deafening drone of crickets. He prayed it would be quiet tomorrow in Baltimore.
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